


Keep Afloat

by Pikkulef



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-17 04:55:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10586877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pikkulef/pseuds/Pikkulef
Summary: Little flashbacks, mostly around Edmund, from before S1. Filling in the blanks with more misery ! Yay !!No real plot, I'm just trying to bring him and other characters from point A to point B, really. Point B bringing up a new face ;) !





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work has been beta/edited by the wonderful @GrumpyQueer. Thank you so much !!! Your help and kind comments mean a lot to me. 
> 
> Y'all RS people know all that but to be sure, there'll be mentions of death, drowning, loss of children, graphic depictions of wounds, etc, etc. Nothing worse than in the show I guess. 
> 
> Also it's more probably better to have at least seen it all up to S3 ? Even if there's nothing really spoilery there. 
> 
> Finally, this will be kept in short, even very short chapters.

He was just an apprentice. Apprentices shouldn’t have to deal with  _that_.

The young doctor looked at the bodies lined up on the pebbles and silt, the Thames lapping at their feet. There were so many of them - dead, alive, some he didn’t know, some likely to soon pass from one state to another. And so many in the water, still.

He looked up at the men trying to pick the lifeless forms out of the whirling, furious brownish flow. He just hoped these good Samaritans weren’t going to drown in the process themselves. Few men knew how to swim in Whitechapel, let alone in such waters. The day had been nice and warm and the sun shone happily over London, but it must have rained heavily somewhere upstream.

A man in drenched rags dragged the limp body of a frail woman near the apprentice. Overcome by panic, he looked about for his master, but Doctor Treves was further away on the shore, helping a child cough out muddy water. All the others had moved away taking care of the few live people they could find, and finding himself alone made him lose all his wit.

“What…” He hated himself for his shaky voice. “What do you think?

The man in rags spat and threw his burden on the apprentice, growling under a thick, nicotine-yellow moustache. “Now gimme my penny.”

“What?” The apprentice had received the body in his arms, somehow. The frail woman was in fact heavier than he thought. And inert.

“They said you’ll give us money for fishin’ them deads out.

“She’s – she’s dead?” He laid the woman down. No breathing, no pulse. She was cold. Blue in the cheeks and lips. He placed his head down on her chest, and still found no heartbeat.

“Gimme the bloody money now!”

“We didn’t offer no money!” The apprentice stood back up, wiping his muddy hands on his grubby knees. “We all came to help. You’re saving lives!”

“Pickin’ up dead hags. Not savin’.” The man walked to him, his hand out, but the apprentice didn’t know if it was to beg or to hit him.

“Money, now.” He was becoming menacing. The apprentice took a step backwards, almost tripping on the body of an old man, when a call went up behind him, and the man in rags disappeared, running away.

“Clear the way! Clear the way! This one’s alive!”

Two slightly more respectable men emerged from the water, half carrying, half dragging a third one. He was as lifeless as the woman had been, and a big wound could be seen on his shoulder, through a torn and burnt shirt.

“Are you sure he is alive? He doesn’t look so,” the apprentice asked, helping them lay the man down next to the others; and he sure was needed.

“He was when we picked him up. The bugger wanted to stay in the water.” The man explained, gesturing to his companion’s bleeding nose. “He hit Simon. Crazy bastard passed out when we got a hold of him.” Simon spat on the ground, too. “I don’t care if he lives or not.”

The two men, free of their load, walked back in the water, leaving the apprentice alone with his new responsibility.

He kneeled down, pressing his ear to the man’s chest, doing what he had been taught, yet again. He could hear a faint heartbeat, but no breathing. He was going to call for help when the man took in a long, and audibly painful breath.  The apprentice braced himself and did as he was instructed, pushing the man on his good side as he started puking a brown mix of bile and water, his whole body shaking. He looked frantically around for something to put under the man’s head. When he found nothing, he took off his own jacket, and folded it for the other to rest his head on while he finished expelling all that water. There was a lot – he had been close to drowning like the others. The apprentice suspected his two saviours to have had a hand in this, after the man had tried to fight them off.

When his new patient’s coughs grew scarcer, he looked at the dreadful wound on his shoulder. As he carefully tore off the remains of the shirt to check the full extent of it, shreds of burnt, molten skin were ripped off by the fabric. The man, still unconscious, let out a feeble groan. The apprentice sighed. The wound covered the whole left shoulder, parts of the neck and chest. Not counting that the man was half drowned, the apprentice was versed enough in the latest medical advances that he knew the turbid waters of the Thames would be full of whatever miasma the city could produce. On an open, slow healing wound like this burn… that man was doomed.

The apprentice looked about. The man was the only living body on this side of the shore. He may be doomed, but not dead yet. It was still worth a try.

The Apprentice got up. “Doctor Treves! Here! I got a live one!”.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two days later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was again edited by @GrumpyQueer. I'm making you work, bro ! 
> 
> These scenes tend to come easily, I'm on a roll, let's keep fingers crossed that I manage to go where I want.

September had not yet given way to October, but it had suddenly turned cold and rainy, an abrupt change after the stream of sunny, summer-like days. Even when he had been warned, Sergeant Drake was not the kind to carry an umbrella, and had nothing but his hat to protect himself from the hail. He secured it with one hand, and left the relative dryness of the cab to make a quick run to the entrance of the hospital.

He opened the door, surprised when the wind almost snatched it from his fingers, and bumped into a lady who was leaving.

“I’m sorry, Miss… oh!” He marked a pause as the lady looked up at him. “Mrs Reid. Emily.”

She stepped back inside and he followed, closing the door behind them, the sound of it echoing throughout the long corridors. He quickly removed his hat.

“Hello, Bennet.” Her thin, previously closed face warmed up with a smile when she looked up at the sergeant. A small, sad smile paired with red eyes, but a smile nonetheless. He couldn’t help but admire the strength of this woman, how friendly she could be despite her life collapsing just mere days past.

“The last room on the left,” She had quickly reverted to a colder, tired mask. She talked fast, stopping the sergeant from even trying to ask her, but never departing from her soft, temperate voice. “He is at the far end, next to the window. He is awake. You can talk with him a little if you want.” There was a short silence, as Emily fought to keep countenance, and succeeded. “He dozes off, and Doctor Treves feeds him morphine still, but he will certainly like to see you.” She had that sad smile again. When she stopped talking, Drake could only mumble, before trying to stop himself, albeit too late:

“And… no news… of your Mathilda?”

At this, Emily did not answer, but gently shook her head, blinking and looking away. But she quickly regained her composure. 

“Thank you so much for coming. I have… matters to attend, now, if you’ll excuse me, Bennet.”

“Emily, I am sorry -”

“Goodbye, Bennet.”

She readied herself and her umbrella, and stepped out into the downpour, Bennet holding the door, and then letting it slam once again behind her.

Bennet stood there, hesitant. What would he say to a man who had almost died and lost his child two days earlier? He had thought of bringing some brandy, knowing it was Edmund’s favourite, but he had eliminated the idea, thinking the doctors wouldn’t allow it.

Hat in hand, the sergeant walked towards the end of the empty, scarcely lit corridor, making his steps as light as possible, yet still hearing them echo about the tiles and walls of this imposing building. Opening the door, he found a smaller ward than he would have expected, with only three beds on each side of the room, half of them empty. Nonetheless, the smell of medicine and sick bodies he encountered in there, as faint as they were, were enough to draw him back to bigger, more crowded wards. Even right there, he almost suffocated as he recalled the heat and pain, at the wailing of the injured, mutilated fellow soldiers. The sergeant shook his head, dissipating the unwanted memories as much as he could, straightening up and heading to the far end of the room, where he could see the form of his superior under thick covers. His back was to him, turned on his good side to the nearby window.

While the storm was fairly inaudible in the corridors, here the rain slapped the windows with a flat sound in irregular bursts, projected by the wind. The room was drenched in the grey, dull light from outside, and had none of the echo of the hallway. In fact, silence was only broken by the rain, and the raspy breathing of one of the patients. Drake was now closer to the inspector, but still invisible from his position. He thought he was sleeping, but then Reid spoke. The inspector didn’t turn towards him, instead stating in a monochord tone:

“All that rain… The current must be so strong now.”

The sergeant, unsettled by this, politely cleared his throat, thinking of retreating.

“Inspector Reid. Sir. I came to visit, but now seems not to be the right time… Perhaps I should come back later, when you’ve rested.”

“Oh, Bennet.” Reid, sounding startled, turned onto his back, unable to suppress a wince when his injured shoulder hit the mattress, even as he moved slowly. “I thought it was Emily coming back. But, of course not; she shan’t be back until this evening. Damn these medicines clouding my memory. I’m sorry, Bennet.”

If Emily was pale, her husband was positively pallid, his skin barely contrasting the white of his shirt and the plaster that could be seen under it, creeping up on one side of his neck. The sergeant noticed his eyes were also red raw. He took another step back.

*

Reid tried to shake the awkward moment away as best he could, showing Drake a chair by the window.

“Please, Bennet. Have a seat. It’s very kind of you to visit.”

“Are you sure, sir? I don’t want to be of annoyance. You probably need to rest.”

“I do. But I also want to hear of you and our work. And, for you to call me Edmund, once and for all.”

“Alright, Mr. Reid…  _Edmund._ ” The sergeant sat, and Reid had a little, mirthless smile. That would never stick to his sergeant.

When the silence drew on, Reid wondered why he had offered Drake to stay. He sighed. The weight he had felt on him before had been slightly lifted by seeing Drake, there, but it had returned, crushing him. He surprised himself by how brittle he sounded:

“Have you… have you seen Emily?”

Bennet straightened in his chair, looking unsure of what to say.

“Yes, just as I was coming in. She said she had matters to attend to.”

Edmund had many questions as to what these matters were, but none fully formed. Emily hadn’t said much. She had just left, after they had looked at each other, unable to say anything, for what had seemed like hours, yet was probably just a few minutes. He didn’t know, really, as time was slipping like sand through his fingers. He didn’t know if he wanted her to come back, or if he was afraid she would do so.

He found it hard to concentrate. He wanted to be left alone, to let himself be swallowed by sleep, to forget that hollow feeling in his chest. But he couldn’t send Drake away just like that, especially when he had something to ask of him.

“So… what news do you have for me? I know it has only been days, and I hear of no more killings,  _but_ …”

“No more, no, sir. Ah, Edmund.” Bennet shifted on his seat, ill at ease. “There is, however… Do you remember that Silver man? The one with the lonely-hearts ads?”

“I do.” While the last couple of days had passed in a painful, anxious blur, there were things Edmund clearly remembered. Silver would be engraved in his memory for eternity, it seemed.  

“He was… I’m sorry, s – Edmund. He was listed on that boat. He is one of the… of the twelve people still missing.”

“Is he?” He tried to convey interest. 

“Since he is one of our Ripper suspects, some of the boys have been sent specially to look for him.” Drake was ruining his hat, crushing it under his fingers. “I… I took the liberty to sneak up a picture of your Mathilda to them, sir. Just… just in case. I hope you don’t mind. I’ll make sure to recover it, when… ”

Somehow, Reid had not expected this. He’d blame the medicine again, finding himself choking, eyes swelling with tears. He noticed from the corner of his eyes that Drake had turned red and was looking away. He did too, turning his head, closing his eyes, clearing his throat.

“Bennet, that is… uh. Thank you, my friend.”

The sergeant, still looking away, simply nodded.

Drake finally stood up. He said goodbye, shaking Reid’s hand, promising to be back soon. The inspector would have taken his hand in both of his, if only he had been able to move his left arm. But one hand was enough to retain his sergeant as he was leaving.

“Bennet, if I might… ask something more of you.”

“Of course…”

“I have a list of books,” He turned to a little bedside table and produced a piece of paper that he handed to the Sergeant. “To be borrowed, only. Would you care to fetch them for me? Emily wouldn’t – she doesn’t have the time to, and I don’t know who else to ask.”

“Of course, sir. Edmund. My pleasure. I will try to bring them to you as soon as possible.”

“Thank you, Bennet. Thank you for everything.”

*

That last look the inspector had cast him had almost moved the sergeant more than his reaction to the mention of the picture. The way he had laid back afterwards, as if some unbearable weight had suddenly collapsed on him. Must be the morphine, Bennet thought.

Outside, the storm had calmed down, and the rain had stopped. He could walk back to the station, and look at the list of books Reid had given him on the way. He opened the piece of paper. In a writing that looked like a mock version of the inspector’s usual crisp, neat handwriting, he deciphered the titles; Mathematics; Physics; The Science of Water and Currents. Frowning, he folded back the paper and placed it in his pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS : I know there aren't 12 but 5 people missing. It's only two days after...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five days later.   
> Very, very short chapter that is all reduced to : Reid hasn't understood what the word "patient" means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited once again by dear @GrumpyQueer :) And so fast, damn !

Doctor Treves peeled back the plaster, inch by inch, feigning to ignore the shudder of his patient. Reid kept his head turned away, keeping his shoulder and neck tense to allow for Treves’ work, but also to avoid the disturbing smell which had impregnated the medical contraption. It was not the first time he’d smelled it, but he hoped it would be the last. He could distinctly smell something like bacon fat, which achieved, on top of the pain, to make him queasy. Something vaguely metallic, also, which he thought must come from what Treves had explained contained silver, when he had enquired about what was being used to treat his wound.

The burnt area, covered in that thick cloth, was healing well, a lot better than what Treves had previously predicted. However, he was visibly unhappy with what he was being asked:

“No. You’ve asked me to go home early, yet you were back here the day after with a fever.” To Reid’s dismay, Treves turned away to a tray, where another set of freshly made plasters awaited, and started applying them back on his wound. Reid clenched his jaw.  

“I put you back on your feet, and you come back again, not even a week after, asking me this? I cannot let this be.”

Reid wriggled about, responding to the pain from both his shoulder, and the refusal of his Doctor.  

“Doctor Treves, I-”

“Do not move, please.” Treves continued his work calmly, after giving Edmund a look that could have been given to an inattentive child. “Inspector Reid, I know you are not especially versed in medicine, but you have proven to be an educated man. Are you familiar with the Hippocratic Oath?”

“Yes, but-”

“Do you know the most important part of it?” Treves, finishing with the plaster, rubbing his hands, looked intently at Reid, who let out a sigh, and eventually answered:

“ _Do no harm.”_

“Indeed, inspector.”

Treves got up, and helped Reid back in his shirt; he could now almost button it alone, as opposed to just five days previous, when he couldn’t even move his fingers without pain radiating through all his upper body. Part of it was his body healing, but a bigger factor was likely the morphine he was still taking regularly. It continued to make his perceptions blurry, his thinking slightly slower, but didn’t erase the boredom he was enduring, nor that constant gnawing of guilt at the corners of his mind.

She was there, somewhere. She had to be.

His shirt on, Reid carefully slipped into his coat – waistcoat be damned until felt a little better – while Treves opened the door, to find Frederick Abberline waiting on the other side.

“So… Doctor Treves: what should this escapee be dealt?”

“Lots of sleep and rest. Not much moving. Morphine, if he feels he needs it.”

“No work?”

“ _Good Lord_. He is not even remotely fit for a daily stroll in the park.”

“Here, Edmund. Have you heard what the Doctor has said about your condition?”

“I have heard, Fred, but I am-”

“You, my friend.” Abberline walked up to him, towering, but with some care in his gruff tone. He handed him his bowler. “You are to go back home. To you bed. To your wife. And not come back to work for the next…?” Abberline turned towards Treves, who was still standing in the doorframe.  

“Two weeks, at the least. A month would be better.”  

“Three weeks. Can you do that, Ed?”  

“Fred, I… please.” Edmund shook his head, his voice imploring. He couldn’t. “Don’t make me keep to the bed when I am restless. Don’t make me of no use, and stay indoors when this killer… this  _butcher_  roams our streets still. Don’t make me stay in-” here his voice strangled and he stopped.

Abberline acted as if he had not heard the beginning of that second sentence.

“The Doctor has spoken, Edmund. You aren’t fit. Let me take you back home.”

“Do not forget this, Inspector.” Treves was holding a new bottle of morphine. Having already schooled him about its uses and dangers, Treves just looked at him once more, then bid them goodbye and returned to his surgery.

“Fred. You know I can be of use.”

“Not under that much pain and morphine, my man. You are to rest. I’m taking you back to your dear Emily.”

Reid didn’t complain nor say anything more, but walking home felt harder this time, his feet and heart heavier than they had been walking to the hospital, a mere couple of hours earlier.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The decount of the days isn't that important but can help get what happens later and why, I guess, if you're curious. 
> 
> Also I seem to write characters with a really good sense of smell. Like really. I'm really sure you cannot smell silver. But... dammit it's a fanfic, I haven't told you, but all of this happens on the moon. Go figure.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never thanking @GrumpyQueer enough for all the editing. My bro !

Edmund woke up groggy from the morphine, and, perhaps - if his memory served - some alcohol. It took him a while to understand what had woken him, where he was, and why. There was little to no light. He was in his living room, sitting in a chair. It was night, and someone was banging on the door.

“Edmund! Open this bloody door!  _THAT’S AN ORDER_!”  

Time for him to extract himself from the chair. Groaning, he saw the pale, ghostly white dot of Emily’s face, who rushed by to open the door. He arrived in time to see it reveal Fred Abberline, while Emily, even whiter than he had thought - her paleness increased by the black garments she had hurriedly put on - held her breath.

Abberline, red in the face, dishevelled, seemed to soften at the sight of her. Unlike Edmund, he seemed to understand immediately.

“Oh, Emily… I am sorry. It is not… It is not about…”

As slow as his train of thoughts were, Edmund eventually reacted to this news – or rather absence of news – by stepping closer to his wife, attempting to take her into his arms in a kind gesture. But she turned away from him and quickly retreated back into the house, leaving him and Abberline alone in the doorway, the two of them suddenly silent. Abberline had seemingly lost all his belligerent energy. His voice was low when he started anew. There was something in his eyes, in his voice.

“He has killed again, Edmund.”

Feeling suddenly nauseous, Edmund kept silent, and gestured for Abberline to enter and follow suit, closing the door on the chill autumn air. He led his superior to the living room, where he turned on a gas lamp, and poured Abberline and himself a glass of brandy from a bottle that he found close to his chair. It was just beyond half empty, from the night before. Reid frowned, recalling the sleepless hours of pain.

Fred gulped his glass down in one go.

“I cannot stay. I am needed. And you are with me, Ed! To hell with Treves.”

“I… uh… do not know if I will be of use tonight.” Edmund blinked and looked away. What he had been wishing for for a week was now freezing his entrails. He wanted to go back to work. But not because of this. “I am… uh… I have…”

“I can clearly see you are drunk, Ed. Drunk or drugged, I do not care. And it is night, soon morning if we do not hurry.” Abberline sighed and gestured to an old clock on the wall. It was barely 2 a.m.

Edmund shuddered, hiding it by taking a sip from his brandy. The sight of his superior and friend in this vulnerable state was a frightening thing to see.

“There are two of them this time.  _Two_ , Edmund…”

Reid finished his glass, and put his hands over his face. If only everything didn’t feel so… dull.

Abberline produced a bottle with white, chalky liquid contents. Edmund recognized the mixture, for he was the one who had taught Fred how to cook it.

“Drink this and follow, Ed; I have no time for your hangover shenanigans. I have left your Sergeant to guard one of the scenes, some constables on the other, but I need you. I need your nose on this, and I need it while it’s all still fresh. Now, man, MOVE!”

Abberline both pushed and helped Reid into his plaid suit – as he had been only wearing his trousers and shirt – looking away when he grunted under the pain of his shoulder, impatiently pacing around while he got ready. Reid had barely had the time to put his bowler on his head when Abberline grabbed his good arm and dragged him outside.

“Let’s go.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to link this to actual history / the show's context. However, I think that, just like the show, this is not going to become about any of the murders. Just Edmund.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As always, this was edited by my dear @GrumpyQueer, BUT I have made last minute changes.  
> So if something feels off, it's my fault !!

Alone, sitting on the bed with his shirt off, he was looking at the still pink and sensitive scar on his shoulder. The very contact of the fabric on it was a quotidian ordeal, yet he was relieved to be done with the stinky, restrictive plasters. It was the only good thing that had happened in the last week, amidst the chaos that followed the last two murders. Murders by one who now called himself ‘The Ripper’, from a letter received by the Yard. Edmund and Fred had, somehow tacitly, decided never to use this name.

No news of her. Not even the slightest about his daughter. But she had to be somewhere.

Yet, being free of the plasters felt, to him, like going forward. It felt a little like hope. Something he desperately needed. He curiously checked the healing of the rest of the wound on his neck with the tips of his fingers, as lightly as possible.

When Emily, ready to sleep, walked past him, he caught her gently with his right arm. Her long, black hair down and braided for the night; her gown barely hiding her body. He couldn’t resist. He wanted to hold her, and craved her touch. It had been so long. They hardly talked nowadays, let alone had any intimate moments. He just wanted to feel her skin against his… maybe make love to her, if he was lucky. He would kill for that, actually. But Emily…

He kissed her on the cheek, lightly, and when she didn’t react, he kissed her on the lips. Passion taking him over, he pulled her against him, the kiss drawing longer, betraying his thoughts.

Emily pushed him back, her hand on his chest. She looked distressed, which had the effect of cold ice on him.

“Edmund… please.”

“I just want a kiss.”

He saw Emily’s eyes drift to his scar, and close. He knew it was not the right thing to say, but he had to. His words came out in a low, husky voice, his face close to her, nearly buried in her neck.

“I just want you. I  _need_ you…”

Emily stepped away from him, and he let his arm fall at his side.

“I cannot, Edmund.” She tucked herself in bed, turning away. He could feel her tension when he settled next to her. He tried to keep his voice even, and soft.

“Can I hold you, at least?”

“Please, put your clothes back on, Edmund.”

Half frustrated, half abashed, he got out of bed. But he didn’t resent her for it - it was understandable. He just felt sad. Just a little more hollow. He had kept on his long johns, but had to pull his shirt back on, triggering a jolt of pain in his shoulder. He suppressed his groan and wince. But he couldn’t suppress his impulse to say:

“I miss you.  

“I miss our daughter.” Emily’s reply was dry, her voice almost shaking.

He stopped as he was walking back to bed. That was the last step of all conversations. Always. He could never answer her. There was nothing to say.

He just stood there, feeling sick, enraged at himself for thinking about such trivialities when, indeed, their daughter was still missing. He thought about this, every hour, every minute. And his wife thought her dead.

But would it hurt? Would it change anything? Wouldn’t it allow them some fleeting feeling of peace, after all?

He cast a last look at Emily’s back, then left the bedroom, still in his long johns, his shirt still unbuttoned. He sat downstairs in the dark, absently gazing at the dead fire for a long while. Looking as much to numb the pain in his heart than the one in his shoulder, he eventually turned, out of what had become a routine move, to the little table where he kept the bottles of morphine Treves had given him. Empty. As was the bottle of laudanum he had snatched from the Yard’s mortuary. Desperate, he turned to the kitchen, and found an old bottle of brandy and another of whisky, hidden on one of the highest shelves – the ones he was the only one able to reach. Safer for Mathilda, and Emily wasn’t the kind to drink in such occasions. He used not to, either.

He sat back in front of the empty hearth, feeling just as hollow, guilt gnawing at the edge of every thought, feeling like he was walking the edge between an unclimbable cliff and the deepest abyss.

He started with the brandy.

He stood on the doorstep, looking at the room. How had he climbed back up the stairs, he had no idea. The floor was moving under his steps, the moonlight coming from the window and assaulting his eyes. Yet he walked in, letting his fingers touch the walls, shelves, the objects and toys still laying there, as much to keep his balance as to ground his mind. Dust had not had the time to settle yet.

He sat on the bed, lightheaded, vacant. Somehow, he laid down, and fell asleep, curled up in a bed too tiny for him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This... was my favourite chapter to write. I hope it had the same effect on you that it had on me, haha...  
> Next chapters will be slower to come, I think. Sorry about this ! I am working on the follow up, however :)
> 
> I really hope Emily doesn't come out as cold or bitchy or whatever - that is not what is intended at all. As @GrumpyQueer and I discussed, they are both grieving, especially her who already thinks there is no hope, and they do so differently. There is no right or wrong reaction to this...


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very short one again ! But, I think, needed.  
> As always, edited by my dear @GrumpyQueer

There were dreams — not every night, thankfully, but most. At least he had some rest from time to time: a few hours, and sometimes even a full night. As for the others…

She was falling, calling out for him. He was stuck, blocked by the burning chimney, but the pain he felt was not a burn. No, it was this part of him that was torn, ripped from his chest. Slowly, surely, every time it sunk with her in the furious flow.

When he woke up, the pain would be there still, accompanied by the emptiness. Always… never receding.

Some nights, he wouldn’t wake up. Those were the worst. He would slowly fall in the river, too, frantically looking for her, submerged. A gasp for air, brushing a little hand with the tip of his fingers amidst the dark waters, catching nothing. And then it would start all over again.

Lately, it had taken a turn for the worst, for his mind seemed determined to torture him, night and day.

Day, as he had to face the streets - the people of Whitechapel, the journalists - as the one they called the Ripper had struck, yet again. He had to consciously put that image, the one none of them had seen but he, out of his mind. Though, he failed, unable to banish the memory of the bloody, disemboweled, desecrated body of Mary Jane Kelly. The worst of them all. Not a murder; no, it was a denial that life itself had ever possessed these remains.  
He still was looking for her, too, as much as Emily and now Fred were trying to dissuade him. Only Bennet stayed silent. One day, he would thank him for this, but now he had more pressing matters.  
She must be somewhere! He just needed the time, and the right calculations. He knew the currents and tides by heart by now. He would find where she had gotten out of the river. She must have.

Night, his dreams now changed. He would be in the waters, looking for her, and then suddenly find himself in Miller’s Court, pushing a door and seeing what was behind.  
Sometimes, it was Kelly there, just as he had seen her these weeks past.  
Sometimes, it was Mathilda, the only thing allowing him to know, being his certainty, and her light red hair, covered in viscous, sticky blood and matter.

He would wake from these dreams without a sound. Even his breath – when he could breathe – was muted. He would look at Emily, if he had been able to share her bed, or just at the floor, if he was sleeping in the living room. He’d try to block the cries in his chest, then he would reach for the bottle nearby.

He had switched to gin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be a lot longer and a breath out of all this misery. Well not all. But at least something different. I promise !


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Longer this time... We're advancing. Making history :P

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some wink at S5, but nothing that would make this chapter really spoilery or not understandable. You are warned, though. 
> 
> Praise and love to @Grumpyqueer the never tiring editor :D

Sergeant Atherton, who was stuck working the night shift this week, looked up to the sound of the station house doors swinging open. In came Inspector Reid, his coat and hat covered in a shallow layer of dirty, soot-mingled snow. He was only four hours early, at this time of the night — or rather, morning — but that had become a habit since he’d returned to his duties. Everyone at Leman Street was now used to seeing him with dark circles under his often glassy eyes, more often than not with his hand upon his injured shoulder. Sometimes, he swaggered, too.

Atherton was relieved to see that it was not the case today, and motioned a salute to his superior, but said nothing. There was way too much noise coming from the cells downstairs to even think about opening his mouth without shouting. But Reid did:  
“What in God’s name is this? ATHERTON! Haven’t you sent some boys down there to shut this man up?”

Someone was shouting in a rage, shaking the bars, and insulting whoever was downstairs with him. Of course, then, all of the fellow prisoners were responding.  
“I would have, sir, if I had some left. The lot are patrolling the streets, on your orders, since the last… since the last one, sir. It’s just me and poor Hobbs down there, and I can’t leave the door unattended now, can I?”  
Reid pointed his finger at him, about to say something, when a shout even louder than the others arose.  
“I WAS WITH THEM PINKERTONS! YOU CAN’T KEEP ME IN THERE WITH THESE DAMNED STINKIN’ DISEASED HOBO SCUM FOR NO REASON! THEY ARE INFECTED! AND I HAVE RIGHTS!”  
Reid sighed and hung his bowler and coat on a nearby rack. The noise was ringing in his ears, crushing his already tired, sleepless brain. He thanked himself for not having taken anything other than coffee and morphine for breakfast, for once.  
“What’s the American here for?” The accent was unmistakable, and they had had their lot of them.  
“Vagrancy, sir. The usual.”  
“That law has filled more of our cells than any other. I’ll try and talk to him, see if Mister Pinkerton will agree to calm down if he is addressed by someone else.”

Downstairs, Reid was greeted by a panicked Hobbs who had no idea what to do to try and stop the ruckus, so he sent him back up to Atherton to get some more coffee. The American was still claiming his credentials, mixing it up with colourful slurs, and rattling the bars. Reid walked over and stood in front of his cell, looking him up and down. There was a definite smell of old rum coming from his breath, but he was not the pile of rags Reid had been expecting; in fact, except for the unshaven face, he appeared reasonably well kept, wearing rather fancy clothes. Old, judging by the seams, but clean — or as clean as someone who had been thrown into these cells for vagrancy could be.  
When the American noticed Reid watching him, he went quiet. But the rest of the room did not. The American passed a hand, bruised at the knuckles, through the bars. Maybe he was not there for vagrancy only.

“Oooh, a new face. You don’t happen to have some matches, do ya? Cause I’d kill for a cigarette.”  
Reid gazed at him again for a while. The American’s speech was slurred, and the inmates around were making so much noise, it was hard to understand what he was saying.  
“Hey, I asked you a question, mister I-don’t-know-what-new-fucking-type-of-British-copper-you-are!”  
“Detective Inspector Reid.” The inspector tilted his head on the side and frowned, detailing the American once again. “Pinkertons, you said?”  
“Why yes, I said Pinkertons…” the American let out over the unlit cigarette he had planted between his teeth. “I said diseased hobos, and I said matches.” He gestured with his bruised hand, though the inspector stayed staring. The American brought his head up to the bars, suddenly making a face.  
“Wait, I know you!”  
“I _really_ think you do not.”  
“Yes. Yes I do.” A smile appeared on the American’s face, revealing a gap between his front teeth. “I was drunk as hell, but not as drunk as you were…”  
“I have no idea what you are talking about, man. And you stop this mess, NOW.” Reid pointed at the American, stepping back, ready to leave. The noise had calmed down, even if a few were still shouting and yahooing. 

“… so drunk you don’t even remember. But never mind, Gladys, we’ll meet again, probably.” He grinned. “Hey, if you don’t have matches, I still need a bucket. I need this badly, ya know. I drank some earlier and now it needs to get out. An’ that guy in my cell is… is… hoarding it… the bucket.”  
“I don’t care that you need to piss, man! Just take the bucket from him!” Reid almost shouted to cover the suddenly revived noise, and pointed at a lifeless pile of rags, hardly visible in the corner of the cell. “And shut up. ALL OF YOU!” He shook the bars of a nearby cell, forcing its inhabitants to recoil. “Or I’m sending in Sergeant Drake and his beloved billy club, understand? And he certainly won’t be happy to have been roused in the middle of the night!” He had turned around to threaten the lot, which had the desired effect, and was going to leave again right when the American shouted:  
“FUCK, MAN! REID! WHATEVER! THIS MAN HAS TYPHOID FEVER, OKAY? I AM NOT TOUCHING ANYTHING THAT HAS BEEN EVEN REMOTELY IN CONTACT WITH HIS BODILY FLUIDS! I shouldn’t even be in this cell, dammit. I DO NOT WANT TO BE CONTAMINATED!”  
Reid stopped in his tracks, but had not turned around. He was thinking, fighting through the exhaustion and the pain that rattling the bars had set off in his shoulder. The American sounded pretty convincing, and knew his way around medical terms, for sure, but he was also a drunk, and probably inventing all this so they would move him from the cell. It was true the other inmate smelled bad enough for him to wince from the hallway, so perhaps he really was sick. Reid was pondering whether to turn around or to leave him be, when the others started shouting again, prompting him to look back towards the American.  
“Ah, you don’t care that I need to pee? Well, I’ll make you care.” 

There was no time for him to run to the cell — the American was already urinating through the bars, onto the hallway floor.  
“That’s it! ATHERTON! I’ve had enough of this American. COME DOWN OR SEND WHOEVER WITH A BILLY CLUB, THIS INSTANT!”  
The sound of feet coming down the stairs started echoing almost immediately, and Sergeant Drake came in through the door, billy club at the ready.  
“Drake? You are here?”  
“Couldn’t sleep, sir. Figured you’d already be here, too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Change of tone, isn't it ? Well no worries I have not forgotten the show, this will not last. I just think tone automatically lifts by a little notch whenever the American is in the room. Not meaning he is a all happy chap, of course. 
> 
> Anyway I must share this with you as this chapter comes from an old fic i had been working on but never managed to advanced, and of which the idea came from the boys and especially Mr Adam Rothenberg himself, as he said in an interview I cannot seem to find again : 
> 
> ROTHENBERG: I think we had this fantasy that maybe Jackson had been thrown in a holding cell one night and drunkenly starting diagnosing people in the room. They picked him up and, without meaning to, he started helping them out. Jackson must have gotten Reid’s attention, some sort of weird way. Because he’s boastful and a bit egotistical, he probably started showing off and it came to bite him in the ass. He’s dragged, kicking and screaming, into this little partnership. He’s a very reluctant helper.
> 
> Let's see where this goes :D


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to the usual... Ripper Street's usual. With added cuteness ? 
> 
> As always, brilliantly edited by my dear @GrumpyQueer ^^

The scene was dreadfully sad. A man had been stabbed, for unknown reasons yet, then left to die in his own blood at the centre of his tiny, messy, smelly attic room. The roof was so steep that Reid had to bend to walk to reach the body. The room was cold, frost growing on the windows. It was poorly lit, and smelled heavily of death, the emptied bowels of the cadaver, and cheap gin.

Yet, as shady as it was, it was some kind of relief. It was humanity in its ugliest, most violent form; it was human. Only human. No disfigurations, no mutilations, no missing parts. Only that old, repetitive, blind human violence. Nothing more.

The man had held an open, full bottle of liquor, and it had poured its contents all over when he fell. Reid caught himself giving a longing look at that now empty bottle. He focused on erasing the smell of gin from his mind, looking away.

The inspector was further shaken off his clouded thoughts by his sergeant.

“Doyle won’t come, sir. He’s been found drunk again.”

“Uh, Bennet… who?”

Sergeant Drake had a look of concern for his superior, but went on.

“The surgeon, sir. For the autopsy. He’s not coming.”

Reid sighed. “Do we have another?”

“Bond is very ill – as far as we know, and he hasn’t given any news for the last week; Doyle’s out of the picture and Ellison and Smith have resigned, after the last ones. They don’t want to hear from us ever again. There isn’t any others, sir - not in the whole Metropolitan Police.” 

“Well then, we need to find a new one.”

“No one wants to be the surgeon on duty when the next one happens, sir. No one would want that.” The sergeant paused, then shook his head, an expression of disgust on his features as he recalled the sight of the last body. “Only if they were off their heads.” 

“Yet we are still here, Bennet; what does that make of us?”

“Damned if I know, sir.” Drake sighed and scratched his head under his hat. “What shall we do, then?”

“Have it taken to our dead room, either way. Store it, at the least.” The inspector gestured to the constables waiting at the door, so they would take the body with them downstairs. As they disappeared with their burden, a sudden noise of breaking glass made the heads of both the inspector and his sergeant turn towards the other part of the attic, uninhabited and filled with rubble. Drake was swift and walked towards the noise, billy club at the ready. Reid followed, a little drowsy.

“Police! Do not – oh.”

After a quick look around the even smaller, empty room, Drake crouched down over a piece of broken glassware, likely fallen from a nearby chest of drawers. Along had fallen a tiny black kitten. The sergeant picked it up carefully, and the kitten let out a feeble meow.

“Well, where’s your mama, little thing?” Drake cradled the little cat.

“Over here, I believe.” Reid let out, disheartened. He had looked around when it had become clear there was no threat nor any suspect ahead, and had found - under another little window - a grown cat and two other kittens. All cold, past rigor mortis, he absentmindedly noted as he gently poked them.

“It looks like they have been dead for a while.”

“It must be starving, then.” Seeing his superior had no reaction, Drake left the room, the kitten safely held in his palm. Reid followed him through the steep set of stairs, to the street, eventually, at a loss. With a sign at the last constable left on guard at the building, he hurried to keep up.

“Sergeant, what are you going to do with this animal?”

“I do not know, sir.” Drake looked at the cat in his hand and gently stroked its little head. “But I’m sick of death. Everywhere, in every corner of this place. I won’t leave this little thing to die and rot in this attic. Would you?”

Reid stumbled “Uh, I don’t know, no, but -”

“Actually,” with authority, Drake placed the tiny kitten in Reid’s open hands. “You should take it. I have no one at home to take care of this. But you have.”

“Bennet, I –”

“Please, sir. It’s only a little kitten. But it needs help. And love. As all things on Earth do, and rarely get. How long since you have been allowed to give any of this to anyone?” Drake gave a meaningful look to his superior, who stared back at him, seemingly hesitating between furious retort, and something else. Reid clenched his jaw and swallowed, then looked down at the kitten in his hand. It was purring weakly, but also shaking from the cold, and likely hunger. It fit entirely in the palm of one hand.

Still, it was too big to fit in his pockets, so, short of ideas, the inspector took off his hat and settled the kitten in it. Drake produced a pair of woollen gloves and draped them over the cat.

“Atherton will have some milk for this lad.”

Reid only shook his head in response, and avoided his sergeant’s eyes for the rest of the walk back to the station, his upturned hat under his good arm. 

***

Later the same day, Reid slowly made his way home - a now clean, fed and warm kitten loudly purring in his palm, his other hand draped over it, shielding it from the gushes of cold December wind. The tiny dot of warmth, and the kitten’s obvious joy at simply being alive and cared for, both softened and worried him. Not for the animal itself, but for what awaited it at home.

He was not mislead.

As he stepped in, he called for Emily. Her dark silhouette and pale face, devoid of curiosity, appeared at the end of the corridor – a ghost in her own home. It was not the first time this had hit him. Icy fingers closed around Edmund’s heart. But he held his palm towards her, the kitten curled up and purring.

“I, uh… Sergeant Drake found this. He wants us to have it. I figured…”

“And what are you and your Sergeant trying to do with this?”

Her face was blank, but her eyes talked. He, for once, found himself trying to emulate his Sergeant’s eloquence – to no avail.

“I, ah, we just… it was dying. Alone. We didn’t want it to… ” Instinctively closing his hand over the kitten, he brought it back to his chest.

“You have lost your daughter, here is a kitten to compensate. Women need to love something, don’t they? To pour, discharge their emotions into some receptacle. A child, or a kitten, what difference? None to you.”

“Emily, it’s not – don’t say that.”

“Too late, Edmund. I have found another… outlet. I was preparing to leave.” At that, she turned away from him.

“What, now?”

“There is food on the stove. Coffee next to it. I assume you can take care of yourself.”

“But, it is dusk.”

“I will not be alone. And will be back before the dead of night.”

In the corner of his eye, Reid noticed some small bags and packages close to the door he had just closed. Food. Covers. Old clothes? Emily’s? Or Mathilda’s? He couldn’t tell. But he had learned to know this new person that had seemed to replace his wife – in front of someone he barely recognised as himself – and tried a soothing path.

“What are you going to do, Emily? I can help carry whatever –”

“I will do this alone, Edmund.” She had turned back to him, a purse in her hand. “Don’t – don’t make me stay here. Don’t trap me.”

Reid swallowed, and looked down. First, at the kitten - who was oblivious to Reid’s pain, now contently sleeping - then down at his feet, blinking. When he spoke again, he kept his voice lower. Barely a murmur.

“Will you tell me what you are doing? So I am not worried out of my mind at the eventuality of…”

Emily had a brief, soundless, mirthless laugh.

“Of what, Edmund? I am worried, all day. I have been for years… now you will taste it.” Her voice smoothed down, suddenly. Looking away, she put her palm on his lapel. “I am, however, no stranger to what has happened in your work, as the whole city is. You do your part. I will try to make mine.”

Comprehension dawned on him.

“You’re going to give this to women on the street.” He let out in a sigh. 

“Some of them need shelter - a real, safe shelter, which I cannot give them. Not yet. But I have met them. They have told me what else would help. I am merely trying to make their night… somewhat more bearable.”

Somewhere, deep under the ice that she seemed to slowly cast over his old feelings these past months, he felt a part of his heart melt for her. She was not that remote from her previous self, after all – all he could hope was to be as good as her, as it always had been. He blinked, pushing away the sudden tears this had brought to his eyes, tilting his head.

“Oh, Emily –”

Swiftly, she took her hand off his lapel, her voice back to her cold, sharp diction.

“I want this thing out of my home when I return.” As she turned away, he had a glimpse of red rimmed eyes. 

The door closed.

Reid held the kitten closer to him, the soft fur tickling his throat, where words and something else were stuck. His eyes closed in a frown over new tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really enjoying writing these scenes with Emily and this is sad because they are such sad scenes all the time. I wish I could give them some less sad one but I don't think it would work... we'll see. 
> 
> I also think this fic is soon to end. One, two, maybe three chapters left, no more...


End file.
